No consciousness of eyes paternal, entomological or matronly was on Horatia during that last intoxicating waltz. She loved dancing, and she had danced a good deal, but never with a partner like this.
The music stopped (a little out of tune).
"Are you giddy?" asked Armand tenderly.
"A little," said Horatia, with truth. "It is so hot..."
He drew her hand a little further through his arm. "Here is a doorway. Where does it lead to? Voyons ... ah, the library, and empty. Quelle chance! On est bien ici, n'est-ce pas? See, here is a chair; give me your fan."
But she would not sit down.
"I must go back to Papa."
"Not yet. He will have you all the days, and I have only these so few moments more of you."
"You are really leaving to-morrow?" asked Horatia in a conventional tone.
"Si fait. I return to Lulworth, and thence to Paris. And you will never think of me again."